Once In This Life
by IHateRaisins
Summary: Previously titled 'Dembe to The Rescue.' Red is hurt after a business transaction goes wrong and finds a saviour in his most trustworthy friend Dembe. Not only does Dembe save his life, but he will also bring two damaged, hurting people together- Raymond and Lizzie- and find his own slice of inner peace. A prompt on exploring Dembe's backstory, with Lizzie and Red as main pairing.
1. Dembe to the Rescue

_Howdy there. __I own nothing to do with Blacklist, I'm just a fan. _

_I just got finished with watching Part 2 of Anslo Garrick and was touched by the comradeship between Red and Dembe. So this is my attempt of writing about them. I might add more chapters, with Dembe saving more lives, even Agent Keen's. Dembe and Red are an awesome team, I love them both- and hopefully I'm not the only one. I'm also a big Liz/Red fan, so in next chapter, when Dembe helps Red, Liz will make her appearance and comfort him while Dembe's a silent lurker in the background. _

_Also part of a prompt I saw in delving into Dembe's character and backstory, with Liz and Red as the main pairing. _

_I would love to hear your thoughts or any ideas if you have them. Should I go on with the story and make it more chapters? Feedback would be massively appreciated. :-)_

* * *

_**Once In This Life (previously titled Dembe to the Rescue)**_

_**Chapter One: A Shot to the Shoulder**_

Red didn't see it coming, until a loud gunshot rang out. It echoed around the room and his ears began thrumming. He felt a burn in his left shoulder, then immediate, immense crippling pain overcome him. The strength of the bullet colliding with his flesh catapulted him forward, and he stumbled into a crumbling wall of cement.

His legs gave way, and he buckled, sliding down the wall to his backside.

With clumsy fingers, he attempted to staunch the flow of blood from the entry wound. He couldn't tell how much he was bleeding, or if it was profuse enough to cause a decent amount of blood loss.

He felt hot, pulsing blood thickly coating his fingertips, his ears kept up with that atrocious deafly ringing, and he could feel the cold, hard bullet from the entry point buried in his flesh. He needed to remove it and quickly. His fingers refused to work with him. His entire body, from the neck downwards, felt numb. Tingling. Tingling in his fingers, in his toes in his Italian hand-stitched loafers, in his joints. Then the vertiginous sensations started unpleasantly. His vision blurred and everything moved around him, as if the earth was opening up and swallowing him whole.

He felt hot and cold, at once.

The intense pain in his shoulder started to become intolerable.

He knew what he needed to do, yet his mind and body seemed to act in slow motion. The only one solution he had in getting out of this alive was Dembe. His brother was outside seated in the driver's seat of his Mercedes, secretly overlooking the transaction that Raymond and a dealer were organizing.

It hadn't gone smoothly, and it resulted in Red getting a bullet to the shoulder. The other man he was undergoing the transaction with fled, the instance the shot was made.

The stupid bastard hadn't even killed him. There would be repercussions later. Retaliation. An eye for an eye.

He thanked it wasn't his brain. In his shoulder, it was something he could live with. At the very least, it would leave behind a horrendous battle-scar.

A scar was nothing in comparison to death. His time wasn't up just yet. No Fat Lady was singing.

His fingers fumbled through his vest pocket. One attempt, two attempt, it took three attempts to slide his cell phone out of his pocket. He struggled to breathe as he pressed the first name on his speed dial list.

Dembe's quiet voice startled him and made him thank Allah for him picking up and for a moment Red couldn't find his voice. His mouth was too dry, the ringing and rushing of blood in his ears too loud.

"Raymond? Did it all go well? Everything go as planned?"

The irony of Dembe asking that did not pass Red, and a hysterical, thick chuckle gurgled in his throat.

"Oh, I think it went exceptionally well, my friend. I now have a bullet in my shoulder that wasn't there before."

"I'll come to you."

The continuous unbreakable devotion this man had towards Red made him want to weep. Raymond had many enemies, but Dembe would not ever be one of them. As Dembe once declared, theirs was a friendship forged once in this life, and again in the next, and Red could never refute that.

His hand holding the phone began to tremble. The constant nagging ache and sting of the wound made him feel ill.

He had to put real effort in his voice to speak firmly and forcefully, "Wait, brother. I don't know if we're in the clear yet."

Red wasn't sure whether the surroundings of the premises were safe and to lose Dembe, who was almost his replacement family for the ones he had lost, would have crushed him. Losing Luli Zeng had been painful punishment enough.

"I'll come to you _still_," Dembe said decisively, ignoring him.

Red heard the movement of the car door opening and then the sound of Dembe's shallow, panicked breathing to reach him and his footfalls crunching on hard gravel.

"You saved my life when my home in Sudan went bad. Without you, I would have remained a warlord's soldier and a murderer. You gave me my only chance at escape and freedom. For that, I owe you my blood, my own life. In Quran, how do we repay the saving of one brother's life to the other?"

Red smiled and tried to pluck the round buttons on his silk shirt open with his unused hand. Everything felt too stuffy... too warm. The collar was suffocating him, cutting off the main supply of oxygen to his brain, it felt like. Once he successfully pried it open, he tugged his collar loose and found he could breathe easier. He gulped in air through his mouth, all the way down to his lungs.

"By saving the other brother's life in return," Red whispered out hoarsely.

Dembe was doing wonders in distracting him from the constant throbbing of pain. _By God, he loved this man._

"Whoever saves one- it is as if he has saved mankind entirely," Dembe went on. Red heard a door creaking open to the left of him and his heart swelled. "Where are you? It's dark in here."

"To the right of you, by the wall. I don't know how much blood I've lost, it's impossible to tell. All I know is that it hurts like a cruel, merciless bitch."

Red heard the clatter of Dembe's cell phone against the hard cement ground, and he let his own phone slide out of his slippery, blood-soaked fingers carelessly. He leaned the rear of his head against the cold wall, heaving out a sigh of immense relief. His eyes struggled to stay open, and when he blinked them frantically to adjust to Dembe's face in the darkness, he choked out a pained laugh.

Dembe was wearing a ridiculous, overly large cowboy hat.

"Dembe, my dear good friend, I will say it: That hat you're wearing is hideous. Hats are definitely not to your style."

He heard Dembe's short whisper of laughter and felt tears forming in his eyes fondly at the sound. He tried to stop the tears for his reliable friend by clenching his teeth, but the wobbling of his chin and the tight ache in his throat gave him away. In these rare, vulnerable moments, he often found it difficult to repress his emotions. Tears clung to the wisps of his eyelashes and trickled down his cheeks.

"You have gone insane, Raymond. I am not wearing a hat today."

Red didn't realize how much he was hallucinating, until Dembe was near, crouching over him. Dembe was _indeed_ not wearing an oversized hat, but Raymond blamed the confusion on his current state. He felt Dembe lift each of his arms onto his broad shoulders, and then he manoeuvred him off the wall onto his back. It was not a painless process. The movement caused a searing pain through Red's shoulder wound, his back cracked loudly at being bent over Dembe, and he gasped and whimpered in discomfort.

"We go now. We'll get this bullet out of you and stitch you up right again," Dembe said gently, and a grateful lump formed in Red's throat, as it occurred to him the strong man was carrying him out of the dark and dismal room. "I save your life, and all of mankind."


	2. An Injured Man's Desires

_Again, I own nothing to do with the Blacklist._

_I want to thank you all for the response I've received. It's so sweet of you, and I'm very humbled, I really wasn't expecting it. I do hope you enjoy this one- even hurt, poor Red craves his girl._

* * *

_**Chapter Two**_

_**An Injured Man's Desires**_

"I think I want a divorce, Tom."

Those were the hardest words Liz Keen ever thought she would have to say. She would have preferred not to do it in person. In voice mail or a letter, even. But she thought Tom didn't deserve that; It would have been cold and inconsiderate of her. Instead, she settled for the moment he came home from a two-day conference meeting in Chicago. She had the weekend off work, Reddington never arranged another meeting to find the next target on his Blacklist, and it gave her a lot of time to think seriously about where she believed Tom and her marriage was heading.

She had felt distracted all weekend; She did the washing, cleaned the floors, everything that would manage to take her mind off what she knew, in her heart, had to come. Things just hadn't been right between Tom and her for a while now. And, with Reddington coming into her life and the cases, she had inevitably learned more about the world she lived in. Tom and her wanted to have a child, to adopt. But after a case involving a corrupt adoption agency, her views on adoption completely changed. She no longer felt it was right to adopt, or no less right to bring up a child in this cold, heartless, unsafe world.

She would have only been holding Tom back. And, she felt she could no longer stay in a marriage with a man, where all foundations of trust had been teared down completely. She no longer trusted Tom, and felt suspicious of him. It wasn't something you should feel about the man you are married to.

Things between them just weren't right.

They sat together on the faded, two-seater couch. Maybe Tom could sense something was wrong with Liz, because he couldn't seem to sit still. And after she finally said the painful words that had weighed down her mind the past two days, Tom stared at her in disbelief. "O.K... so you want a_ divorce_? What?"

"I'm sorry to hurt you like this. But things haven't been the same in a very long time. We just want different things. I know how much you have wanted to adopt, but I just _can't_ do it, Tom. I just_ can't_ bring up a child in this world, now that I've seen and experienced everything. It just doesn't feel right to me."

"Alright, Liz, but you_ told_ me that. You told me you didn't want to adopt anymore, and I said I was fine with that," he said quietly, looking down at his hands. "And I _am_ fine with that. There is no need to get a divorce just because of that. You _said_ you didn't want to adopt anymore, you changed your mind, and I'm _trying to deal_ with that."

"But you_ know_ it isn't just the adoption issue, Tom." She tried to pick her words with care, although she knew either way, he would still get hurt regardless. "It's... _us_. _We're_ broken and things just aren't the same as they used to be. _I'm _not the same woman I used to be."

"It's your job." He stated it as an unquestionable fact. "It's your job that has changed you, Liz. You hardly come home anymore. We hardly talk anymore. Your job is more important than me, than us starting a family together. This is what the problem is."

"Okay, so I deserve that," she agreed, trying to speak as calmly as she could. "My job has become demanding, the hours... unpredictable. But things aren't right between us, Tom. And, I don't think they will ever be again." Her throat tightened, and she tried so hard to refrain from crying. She clasped her hands and stared down at them in her lap, blinking back tears. This conversation was just as difficult as she was expecting it would be. "I don't think it is fair to say that it is mainly me and my job that is the problem here."

"Well, _what else_ could it be, Liz? Have you...I don't know, met another man?"

She almost laughed at his ridiculous assumption. Had she met another man? She had, and he had planted that gnawing, expanding shred of doubt into her head about just the type of man she was married to. She respected Reddington; She no longer mistrusted him, and she had grown to care about him deeply on some profound level she wasn't even sure the meaning of. He was a pain in the ass, she had grown to feel attracted to him which was the very last thing she thought she would ever feel towards the man, and something about his zest for life was alluring. But she did not act on it, kept it under control, and that was where it ended.

She was careful to keep everything on a professional level.

She lifted her eyes and looked at Tom. He was staring at her, waiting for her to answer.

"Tom, absolutely not," she said, shaking her head. "There is _no_ other man. This has nothing to do with anyone else, but _us_. I just... I have this constant feeling that never leaves me... that there is something not right here between us. Surely you have felt it yourself, haven't you?"

"I haven't," Tom said. His voice was quiet. "I haven't at all. All I know is how much you've changed, ever since this job started. I'm just trying _so hard_ to make this work, Liz. But the fact you are telling me you want a divorce, it shows me where your head is at. You don't think it's worth anything trying to fight for our marriage anymore, do you?"

She swallowed dryly and had to look away from him. "I don't think it's working, no matter how hard we try to make it through this," she said, her voice trembling. "There is no going back. Where we are now... I see it as irreparable. There is nothing here that can be fixed."

"_Irreparable_, Liz-" He paused to absorb her words. "Don't you love me anymore? Is that it?"

Did she still love Tom? It shouldn't have been so hard to figure it out.

"I don't know, Tom. I don't know anything anymore, least of all my feelings for you. It's why I feel it's right that we call it a day and start thinking about getting divorced."

* * *

Blood was everywhere and Red was drifting in and out of conscious.

Dembe carried Raymond inside, pushed aside all the manuscripts littering the couch from Raymond's nightly reading when his bouts of insomnia plagued him, and sat him down carefully on the couch. With an air of urgency, Dembe undid his vest and pulled it off his dear friend. The bullet had made a hole in the back and damp streaks of blood stained the lavish, ash grey fabric.

Dembe had never been one for high-end fashion, until he met Raymond Reddington fifteen years ago. Raymond had been the very first person that had brought him his very own expensive black suit, and Dembe knew the man treated his clothing as a friend and mourned the loss of a damaged vest or soiled shirt.

Knowing this and thinking it better in Raymond's debilitating state, Dembe subtly dropped the ruined vest at his feet and kicked it under the couch before leaning over him and getting started on the tricky task of maneuvering the shirt he was wearing off Raymond's body as quickly and painlessly as possible. It was no easy job; He had lost a lot of blood, and the shirt wanted to stick to him like a second skin. Raymond was sweating profusely and the material seemed to stick to him like adhesive glue.

"It'll all be better soon, my friend," Dembe said softly, as Raymond grunted when he peeled the shirt off his blood-soaked back, irritating the wound further.

Dembe evaluated the wound and touched his skin gently with his fingers.

He found the entry point easily, and he could see the shining silver of the bullet lodged in his shoulder-blade, about roughly three centimeters into the skin.

Dembe knew instantly what he was required to do; He was unfazed, but not careless when it came to his good friend. Dembe had done this for Raymond a countless number of times, when he was hiding out in different locations when Raymond employed him as something of a bodyguard; and even when Dembe had the bad luck to get himself shot, Raymond was doing the exact thing for him in showing him due care and dislodging the bullet, getting him all fixed up again.

Dembe treated this as another one of those times.

He couldn't help but be concerned for his friend, who was huffing and mumbling incorehent words at him; His eyes squeezed tightly closed and his face and scalp drenched in sweat. Dembe couldn't tell what Raymond was whispering- his voice was too low, too jumbled- but Dembe had a faint idea that he was hallucinating. He had never seen Raymond this bad.

"You're going to be okay, Raymond. We just need to get this bullet out of you and get you all stitched up again, my friend. You're in good hands with me."

"There is no one else in the world I would rather have this done by than you, Dembe," Raymond got out with a short, weak laugh. He sounded drained and tired- unlike the Raymond Reddington Dembe knew well. "How is it looking?"

"It is no different from that time you had your kneecap shot by that woman in Belfast when you got frisky with her and called her an old hag. Here." Dembe passed him a clean rag and told him sternly to apply pressure to his wound, which his friend did dutifully with a pained wince. "It'll all be over soon."

Dembe touched the back of his hand gently to Raymond's glistening forehead. He felt fire-hot.

"You have a temperature, but I am sure that has everything to do with the pain. You must ride through it, brother."

Raymond laughed warmly and Dembe heard him mutter in a raspy voice, "I've been riding through it my whole life, Dembe. Scotch certainly helps with the occasion."

Dembe felt an inkling of disapproval, but couldn't deny the man his wishes. He passed him the bottle of scotch that was on the table near the couch and then went to find some tweezers and a bowl. When he returned, Raymond had spilled scotch all over his trousers and was grumbling inaudibly in annoyance.

Dembe went to the back of the couch to get to his shoulder easiest, leaned over, and examined the wound again. Then he used some of the scotch to sanitize the tweezers and positioned himself on an angle to best use the jaws of the tweezers to remove the bullet out. It was a home job but Raymond seemed to prefer it rather than risking recognition at a local hospital.

"I am going to have to remove the bullet now," he told Raymond gently, and Raymond mouthed not a single word in protest. "Get ready to ride it out."

Squinting his eyes and taking his silence as a sign to proceed accordingly, Dembe reached down with the tweezers and carefully pushed his way inside the entry wound.

Raymond started muttering something again- something about Agent Keen- and Dembe instantly knew what the man's desires were. In all his years of being with Raymond, no woman had the ability to effect him as much as Agent Elizabeth Keen had.

It was only natural Raymond wanted the girl in his company in one of the worst, painful moments of his life.

Only calling her would have to wait a moment or two; Dembe successfully gripped the base of the bullet with the jaws of the tweezers, got a strong hold on it, and proceeded to yank it out as quickly as possible. His dear good friend moaned loudly in despair while Dembe held the bullet up to his eyes, inspecting it closely. He could see no broken fragments, just blood, which was a wonderful outcome.

It meant that fixing Raymond up could be quick.

He dropped the bullet into the bowl with a_ clink_ and wiped his hands.

"You apply pressure again to your wound, Raymond, while I go give the girl a call."

Raymond's eyes flitted open to peer up at Dembe; His eyes unfocused and corners of them glistening wet. Tears cascaded down his cheeks, his mouth parted, and suddenly he looked dreadfully ill and ashen. With slow effort, he reached over with his uninjured arm to press the rag into his wound.

"Lizzie?" he breathed out, almost wistfully and serenely. Evidently he hadn't realized Dembe could hear him talking about the girl.

"Yes, Raymond. I'll go tell her to come to you, maybe sit and hold your hand while I stitch you up."

Dembe knew Raymond would have liked nothing more than for Agent Keen's presence. And, if they had any hope in hell of calming his fever down, that girl had best come.

* * *

_I hope this wasn't really bad? I'm feeling so self-conscious of my writing, I haven't written anything like fan-fiction before, and I feel as if I'm failing terribly._ _I want to thank you all so much for taking the time to read, review, and even add alerts to this story, it has made my day. Red and Liz will be in the same room in the next chapter, and there will be some tender moments shared. I'm so sorry if I'm dragging it out._


	3. Need For Each Other

_A/N:_

_First, I own nothing to do with the Blacklist. Secodly, I want to thank you all so much for being so lovely. It takes my breath away, you are all so kind. I hope you enjoy this one- Finally some Red and Lizzie in the same room action!_

* * *

_**Chapter Three**_

After their hard conversation, Tom didn't say anything. He simply said he was going to stay at a hotel room and give her some space to fully think about what she wanted. He raced around the house, gathering his things and packing them into a suitcase. Liz had told him, pleaded with him, not to take their dog, and he had agreed.

"What are you doing?" she had demanded, when he had pulled clothes out of drawers and had unplugged his laptop from its charger.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Liz? I'm giving you some space. Maybe it'll help you put into perspective what you really want to do."

She watched him silently, with silvery tears down her face. For a moment there, she had wondered if she had made a big mistake. But she knew things weren't right, and she probably did need the time alone to think.

"Tom, I'm sorry," she repeated weakly, for what felt like the hundredth time she had said it. And, just like all the other times, he ignored her in a way that was ice-cold. "Please don't hate me."

His back was turned to her as he threw his toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor into his suitcase.

"Just don't hate me," she whispered quietly.

He sighed loudly and finally turned to face her. "Liz, I _don't hate_ you, alright? Obviously we just have a few little things to work through. I'll give you a call later tonight, once I'm settled in at the hotel..."

He zipped the suitcase up and grabbed the set of car keys that were on top of the refrigerator.

"I'm taking the car, Liz."

"Fine, do whatever you want. Just don't take Hudson."

Invading in on their moment, her phone started ringing in her pocket. She reached to retrieve it, and Tom stared at her questioningly. When she flipped it open and went to answer it, he shook his head.

"Of course, Liz," he said bitterly. "If it's your job, of course you take it. I might as well not even exist!"

"Tom, please don't be like this-"

"Goodbye, Liz," he said shortly, grabbing his suitcase. He left the room before she could even manage to get another word out. _God, why was everything with Tom so damn complicated?_

Rubbing her wet nose with her wrist, she held the phone to her ear. "Yes, hello? What is it?"

"Ms Keen?"

It wasn't a voice Liz thought she recognized, nor did the number show up on her speed-dial. Had it been Reddington, the name 'Nick's Pizza' would have revealed itself. "Yes," she clarified slowly, "This is Agent Elizabeth Keen. May I ask who is calling?"

"It is Dembe, ma'am."

Dembe. The man part of Red's authorized security team. She was shocked to know that it was him calling her; Her conversations with the man had usually been short and brief.

"Dembe, what can I do for you? Is this about Red? Has he arranged another meeting place so that we can discuss the next target on the Blacklist?"

"Uh, no, ma'am. This is not that kind of call, but he... needs you. I am going to need you to come as quickly as possible. This is a matter of urgency."

The connection was cut and she let the phone slip from her fingers to the floor below her with a clatter. It smashed and the battery fell out, but she couldn't care less. Dembe's words stuck with her.

There was worry laced in his rich, thick voice. A worry she hadn't heard from a man like Dembe before. Obviously, it was something serious and Red truly did need her. One of their conversations came to her mind, one of their very first shared together, over an aviation cocktail and a glass of scotch:

_"Tell me about your job; the profiling. I'm fascinated. How close to the truth do you think you can really get? Tell me my profile, Lizzie... I so want to know how you see things."_

_"Your a loner, you keep your distance... Your closest friends are strangers... You understand that tight bonds can make you vulnerable, so you're careful not to have any... And that's why you're so conflicted about me; You need me, and you hate that about yourself because it makes you vulnerable."_

He _needed_ her, whether he denied it or not. And he needed her _now_.

Seeing Red was the very last thing she wanted to do, especially after her difficulties with Tom. But the urgency and desperation in Dembe's voice made her realize she had to be there. It was imperative to be there, whether it was a discussion on the next target or otherwise.

Slipping off the kitchen chair, she fell down to her knees and put her phone back together. She got it restarted, called a cab's number to pick her up since Tom had the car and she had no other way to get around, and grabbed the house keys.

She shrugged into a leather jacket, said goodbye to Hudson who was sleeping near the front door, and locked up the house while she waited outside for the cab to arrive. Once she got inside the cab, she told the middle-aged man the directions, and he moved back into the traffic.

Her phone rang again but she didn't bother checking who it was before she answered. She heard noises in the background and heavy, shaky breathing, before a voice spoke. "Lizzie?" It was Red, and his voice was strangely groggy and slow.

"Yes, I'm in a cab on my way to you now. This better be good."

There was a moment of silence, a hesitation, on the other line. Then Red said, with profound emotion, "I need you."

At least he didn't dare deny it.

"I know," she said quietly. "And I'm on my way. The traffic's just a bit slow, but I'm coming. I'll see you soon."

She ended the call and once the cab driver finally reached her destination, she gave him a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

She caught her reflection in the heavy glass doors as she pushed her way inside. God, she looked terrible, like a miserable dog with its tail between its legs. Her hair that was pulled up into a French bun had come undone messily, and her eyes looked puffy from crying over Tom. The white blouse she was wearing looked ruffled and uneven, and her skinny black jeans were all crinkled. Fortunately she still looked somewhat presentable and if Red dared to comment on how disheveled she looked, he had some real nerve.

She had just initiated the 'split-up talk' with her husband. It was a reasonable excuse not to look so good.

She raced up the stairs two at a time and knocked on the door. The hallway was dark and no lights were on. When Dembe slipped out and stood in front of the door, preventing her way inside, her shoulders relaxed and she caught herself smiling. It wasn't a _so-glad-to-see-you_ type of smile. It was more of a stiff, relieved one.

"You called, you wanted me, so here I am. Where is he?"

"Inside," the man answered shortly.

"Yes, evidently. Can I come in? What's happened? When I talked to him just then on the phone he sounded... _terrible_."

"He looks every bit the way he sounds. He's been hurt, Ms. Keen."

Liz felt tears forming in her eyes with worry. Usually she knew Dembe to appear calm and composed, but now, not so much. And if Dembe was stressed, there must have been a valid reason for it.

"He's hurt? How?"

"Unfortunately I can't answer that," he said, with a rueful small smile. "All I can say, Ms. Keen, is that he isn't doing very well. I need you to distract him, talk to him... keep him awake and conscious."

"Conscious?" she asked in a hush. "Why would I need to keep him conscious?"

"Perhaps it would be best if you see for yourself?"

He stepped aside to let her in, and with a pounding heart, Liz entered. She looked around, finding nothing out-of-place in the house. Her eyes flitted over to the couch and finally, she found the man. Red was sitting slumped over the edge of the couch. He was shirtless and under perhaps another circumstance she would have used it to her advantage to look curiously, but there wasn't any good reason to look at this time. His skin was pallid, beads of sweat were rolling down his forehead, and tears gleamed in the corners of his eyes as they found hers immediately from where she stood.

He was disconcertingly quiet as he simply stared at her; his glassy eyes taking all of her in slowly.

She could tell he was in pain, but she couldn't understand the source of that pain.

The breathlessness and intense concern for him that overtook her had her by surprise. She knew she cared for him, yes, but she wasn't sure the extent of her care.

With slow, uncertain steps, she approached where he was sitting in a strange position with his shoulders slumped forward, his ankles crisscrossed out before him.

Once she was close enough, standing before him, she saw it. A white piece of cloth was sticking to his left shoulder, and was smeared with bright red blood. The blood was fresh, recent; That much she knew. He had gotten hurt some time around an hour or two ago.

Her stomach sank and she felt as if she wanted to cry, but she wasn't sure whether she would be crying for him or just for the depressed mood she was already in.

Under the faint glow of the lights in the room, she could discern the bags under his eyes. He looked terribly tired and exhausted and after a moment of hesitation, she reached forward with her hand and let her fingers graze the side of his temple softly. He felt hot, dangerously hot and fevered, and his eyes closed momentarily at her touch.

He heaved out a long sigh of relief at the sight of her and the soothing touch her fingers had on him, and Liz smiled sadly.

"Hey," she breathed softly, her voice trembling with nerves, "How are you doing down there?" She knew it was a ridiculous question, the instance it flew out of her mouth, but Dembe _did_ say he wanted her to talk and keep him distracted.

"You're here, Lizzie." His voice was a slow, whispered croak, coming from deep inside of him.

"I am here. What happened to you?"

"It's too long of a story, Lizzie. You cannot _begin to imagine_ just how happy I am to see your face and hear your voice."

"I would say I'm glad to see you, too, but then... you look terrible right now, Red. And you're hurt. So it would only be a lie."

"Do I really look terrible, Lizzie? I feel _fantastic_. Dembe thinks I look fantastic too, don't you, my friend?"

"Oh, you wish, Raymond."

Red choked out a warm laugh and Liz hadn't realized Dembe was standing behind them until she looked behind her shoulder. Dembe had that habit; Appearing out of thin air almost, without her knowledge.

"What happened?" Liz asked, hoping for some seriousness in the room. "I see you have an injury on your shoulder."

"As I said, it's an extremely long story, Lizzie. It would only bore you."

"Oh, come on. You're just saying that to evade my question. Can someone please tell me what happened?"

She looked down at Red questioningly, finding his eyes on her and nothing else. Their eyes locked for a moment, and they fell into an uncomfortable silence. She bit her lip and turned her eyes onto the damp, blood-soaked rag on the side of his left shoulder instead, ignoring his intense scrutiny.

"Someone tell me what happened. Dembe, why is he bleeding?"

"I have to stitch him up now, Ms. Keen."

Dembe stepped forward to stand over Red and she saw he had what looked like a needle and some thread in his hands.

"Stitch him up?" she repeated apprehensively, as the words sunk in. "Why would you need to stitch him up? Do you mean to tell me you're going to do it yourself with that needle and thread you're holding? Are you even... _qualified_ for that? Do you have the medical credentials to do that? Is that really _sanitary_? Shouldn't you take him to the hospital and let a doctor or nurse do that job?"

Dembe didn't answer. Just like Red, he seemed to be a master of not giving away answers to questions she seeked. Her eyes were trained on Dembe as he peeled the white cloth off Red's shoulder and she heard the distressed noise Red gave out near her. There was a hole, a bloody gash, in his skin. She didn't like the idea of Dembe doing anything to him when he hardly had any experience or qualifications, no less. She realized, most of all, that she was scared. For him. For Red. Scared of losing him. Scared of Dembe not treating him properly and not making him survive this.

She went to move towards Dembe, telling him to back off unless he sufficiently answered her, when she felt a warm hand close over one of her own tightly. A hand larger than hers. Dry, trembling fingers. _Red._ His fingers tightened over hers, clinging to her like she was a lifeline of some sort.

"Relax, Lizzie," he said in a throaty voice. "Dembe has been doing this for me for years, haven't you, friend?"

"Yes, Sir."

"_Stay_, Lizzie. Sit with me. Talk with me for a while."

His eyes zeroed in over her face and his hand clamped down on hers in a vice-like grip. There was such pitiful desperation in his eyes for her that she couldn't even start to refuse him of his wish. And really, why would she want to? Surrendering, she slid down to her knees, moving closer to the side of him on the couch, their hands still intertwined tightly.

He needed her. She had to remind herself of that. And, maybe, deep down inside, a part of _her_ needed _him_ as well.

**A/N: Hoping this one wasn't really bad?** **Thank you all so much for being so kind and encouraging, it definitely takes my nerves away.**


End file.
